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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496203">Mending</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000'>sparrow2000</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:14:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles waits and watches and keeps himself occupied. Many years post series.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Summer of Giles</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mending</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>While this fic is Gen, as in no sex in the fic, but in my head Giles and Oz are in a long term relationship.<br/>Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al, own everything. I own nothing.<br/>Comments and feedback are cuddled and called George<br/>Beta extraordinaire, as always: thismaz<br/>Written for the 2020 summer_of_giles</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Giles opens the old leather pouch and selects a needle. Not one of the very fine ones he uses for stitching up wounds and not one of the big ones he uses for mending leatherwork on weaponry. He believes in the right tool for the job and tonight it’s a medium needle, one he can hold easily between his finger and slightly arthritic thumb.</p><p>Next he selects the thread. There’s not much choice. Black or brown or white. He used to have a bilious green and an exuberant yellow, bought in a moment of madness or possibly inspiration, he’s still not sure which. He finished them a month ago and haberdashery has taken a back seat to demonic incursions. Sometimes he thinks it’s the perfect indication of just how uncivilised the end of the world can be.</p><p>He pulls out the black thread and unspools a length, cutting it with his pocketknife. He ties a small neat knot at the bottom and threads the needle on his third attempt. His eyes aren’t as good as they once were, nor are his fingers as steady. There was a time where he only needed one try, but time moves on and he doesn’t begrudge its passing because it’s allowed him this ritual, marking off the months and the years.</p><p>There’s a short sleeved blue shirt across his knee and he smooths it out, running his fingers over the puckered material at the front. There’s a gap where the bottom button should be. The other buttons, four in total, are small squares of black and white, pleasing symmetry in his unordered world. He bends down and opens a mason jar at his feet. It’s full of buttons and he rummages until he finds what he wants. There are only two black and white ones left. He wonders if he’ll be able to get more. It might not seem an important question in his world of prophecy and portent, but it is a reminder that it’s the small things that really matter.</p><p>He eases the needle into the shirt front, pulling gently, feeling the knotted thread solid underneath. A second small stitch secures it, then he reaches for the button and catches the thread through one of its holes, until the button is flush with the fabric, before he pushes the needle back into the second hole and down through to the other side. He could do this with his eyes shut, just picturing the push and pull of the thread, the button under his fingers, the slip and slide of the fabric familiar under his hand, but he keeps his eyes open, watching every stitch, judging his neatness and the steadiness of his hands. It’s a meditation in needlework. Another month survived. Another shirt rescued. Another button fixed. It doesn’t matter that it’s a different button; it’s the act that counts. Marking the moment. Making something right. Making it whole.</p><p>He smooths his thumb over the topside and then over the small cluster of stitches at the back, judging his work. The thread is strong and the button holds secure, black and white geometry against blue.</p><p>He settles the shirt back across his knee and shifts his attention to the floor to ceiling bars that make up the door to the cage. Oz is asleep, stretched out on his side, the curve of his back showing every vertebra. They always seem more pronounced these three days a month, even when he isn’t in wolf form. His hair is a darker blue than the shirt, with red tips glowing in the soft light. It covers the salt and pepper grey that keeps threatening to assert itself. Oz talks about letting it happen, letting nature have its way, but Giles still buys him ridiculous colours. He’s let the grey colonise his own hair, but he channels his wildness vicariously through Oz. Oz allows him the indulgence.</p><p>The first rays of the sun slant through the basement window and Oz stirs, stretching, his back flexing as he rolls to his knees, then to his feet. Giles stands with him, slower, but still steady. He pulls a key from his jacket pocket and inserts it into the cage door. He hesitates, his eyes on Oz, waiting for a nod before he turns the key and pulls.</p><p>The door swings open and Oz steps through. His days of shyness at being naked long behind him.</p><p>Giles holds out the shirt. “You popped a button again,” he says. “Maybe next time you’ll get here in time to get your shirt off in one piece?”</p><p>Oz takes the shirt, running the pad of his thumb Giles’ handiwork. “Maybe next time,” he agrees.</p><p>It’s their mantra. Their pledge to the wolf. Their pledge to each other and the years they’ve spent together. It’s a pledge to their next time, and all the ones to follow. To buttons lost and needles threaded and stitches set with love and care.</p><p>A pledge that Giles will be there with his needle and thread, whatever the colour, watching and waiting through the night.</p><p>And that Oz will give him buttons, for as long as they have buttons left to sew.</p><p>Fin</p>
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